


Pages d'un cahier

by FixaIdea



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-02 16:42:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 5,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5255744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FixaIdea/pseuds/FixaIdea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of fills for an ask meme from Tumblr, of the 'one pairing + one line of dialogue' variety.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Look at me - just breathe

**Author's Note:**

> Some are set in canon era, some in a modern AU.

Everything happened so fast - one moment Grantaire was walking home from the Musain - not even drunk, not by his standards - the next he was pleading with Enjolras not to give up.

He slipped, see. It was January, and Grantaire slipped on a patch of ice, falling into the middle of the road. It was just his luck that the only cart near and far chose that one street to speed down on - Grantaire struggled to get up, to get away but he knew he wouldn’t make it…

Until he suddenly found himself on the pavement, the cart rattling past behind him. He was vaguely aware that someone must have pushed him but who…

There was a body on the road, lying face down on the icy cobblestones. That lean figure, that halo of blond hair - there was no mistaking him. It was Enjolras.

R scrambled to his feet and quickly dragged him on to the pavement and gathered him into his arms. He was alive - but only barely. He was staring off into the distance with clouded eyes, a thin trail of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Grantaire gently cupped his cheek and turned him towards himself.

‘Look at me - just breath, alright? All will be well. Just you hang on, my angel…’

For a moment Enjolras seemed to focus on him, raised a bloody hand, as if to return his caress - but his hand fell back, and he kept staring, unfocused.

By the time the police found them he was cold. 

Grantaire remained there, sitting on the pavement for a long while after the corpse was wrestled from his arms.


	2. What happened doesn’t change anything

‘What happened doesn’t change anything. Not between us, not how I feel about you. You know that, right?’ Feuilly said, brushing back what hair Enjolras had left.

It’s been a week since the attack, since a skinhead assoulted Enjolras at a rally and threw acid in his face. It has effectively melted the skin off of half of his face and irreversibly damaged one of his eyes. It’s been a whole week, and he could still only communicate in writing, because moving his mangled lips was simply too painful.

He was home now, at the apartment he shared with his partner, and for the last half an hour he’s been quietly venting to him, letting out all the anguish and fear he’s been suppressing. Among them the horrified, disgusted looks people have been giving him, and will inevitably continue to do so.

‘You are still you, the same charming, intelligent, charismatic man I fell in love with. Nothing will change that.’

 _Maybe I should wear a mask_  - wrote Enjolras.

‘Oh, René, no…’

_And start to Dramatically Linger in the shady corners of the Opéra. Giving clandestine singing lessons._

Feuilly raised an eyebrow.

‘You should learn to sing yourself before you can do that.’

_Details. And let’s not forget about distributing roses to innocent young tenors._

Feuilly laughed, rolling his eyes.

‘As long as you draw the line at kidnapping them.’

_Why would I do that? I have my own already._

‘Yes’ Feuilly whispered, smiling ‘You’ve got me. You’ve got me.’


	3. The paint is supposed to go where?

Feuilly was starting to get uncomfortable. Enjolras has been gaping at him for almost a minute now.

’The paint is supposed to go where?!’

Feuilly sighed and pointed at a flaking mural on the facade of the building they were standing in front of.

’Right there.’

’On the façade.’

‘Yes.’

‘Above a fourth storey window.’

‘Yes…?’

‘And you intend to reach it… How exactly? By hanging off of a rope from the roof?’

Feuilly shrugged.

‘Essentially. Though I was thinking more of a hanging seat made of a plank and ropes.’

‘No.’

‘Come again?’

‘Feuilly, that’s not a job, that’s suicide. In all seriousness, I pay whatever your client offered if you don’t do it!’

Feuilly only barely refrained from remarking how he’s never known Enjolras to be such a scaredy cat, but instead he just rolled his eyes.

‘You know I can’t do that, I can’t just refuse clients like that, it wouldn’t help my reputation.’

‘I understand’ sighed Enjolras ‘But at least promise me you won’t start until I asked Combeferre if he can come up with some easily applied safety measure.’

Feuilly laughed and agreed, but even after they parted ways, even days after the painting was renovated, he couldn’t forget the deep set worry and concern in Enjolras’ eyes.


	4. Teach me how to play?

Grantaire has never bothered to learn to play chess. It smelled of mathematics and strategic thinking, so he was instantly suspicious of it. 

Which, as he started to realise, was a shame, because chess was one of the very few non-revolutionary activities Enjolras honestly enjoyed. And he was good at it too.

Rather too good, actually. Hardly anyone played with him anymore because the only one who had any kind of slim chance against him was Combeferre, who wasn’t all that fond of the game to begin with.

Grantaire sighed. If only he knew the basics at least, he’d let Enjolras wash the board with him a thousand times, just to see that sublime look of concentration on his lovely face and that pleased little crinkling of his eyes after a successful move.

If only someone would teach him. But who would?

…Who indeed.

This was how one day, in the Musain, Grantaire plopped down in front of Enjolras and placed an old, battered chessboard between them.

‘Teach me how to play?’


	5. I think I’m in love with you and I’m terrified

‘You have been avoiding me. Did I do something?’

Enjolras looked up. Feuilly was standing above him, with a nervous, slightly hurt expression on his face.

‘No’ said Enjolras with a heavy sigh ‘Not at all, and I apologise. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ve been, ah… preoccupied. Trying to work through my feelings.’

‘And what’s the conclusion?’ Feuilly asked with a little smile.

Enjolras looked up at him, eyes very blue and very grave.

‘I think I’m in love with you and I’m terrified.’

Feuilly blinked. And blinked again. Out of all the things he suddenly wanted to ask what actually did tumble out was:

‘Why?’

‘Because if I asked you out you could either answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’ and both are equally scary. You see, if you refused, it would just make things awkward between us on the long run. I’ve seen it happen before and it’s… It’s not pretty. I don’t want to lose you.’

‘But if I said yes?’

Enjolras looked down at his hands.

‘I’ve never done this before. And I don’t really want everything that’s supposed to come with a relationship. There are things I just can’t give but you? You deserve the best.’

Feuilly sat down beside him and held out his hand. Enjolras looked at it somewhat warily, then slowly, hesitantly took it in his own.

‘If you asked me out’ said Feuilly, smiling ‘I would say yes. And I don’t care much about what a relationship is supposed to be. We could work out what’s best for the both of us as we go. How does that sound?’

Enjolras smiled back at him and gently squeezed his hand.


	6. The colour green

Theoretically, as most of Les Amis agreed, Enjolras should have been  _red_. It was the colour of passion and anger after all, both of which Enjolras had in spades. Bahorel has even gone as far as buying him red scarves and shirts for birthdays and Christmas, but that was probably just Bahorel’s personal taste showing. And while Enjolras has occasionally worn his gifts, he never really took a shine to the colour. He usually wound up wearing something light green.

It suited him, in Combeferre’s opinion at least. Red was wildfire, passionate but aimless destruction. Enjolras, even at his angriest was focused, white-blue, burning brighter than any common wildfire, burning like the hottest stars. Also, Combeferre thought, amused, on such occasion he was similar to a star in one more respect - he was better observed from afar. 

But at rest? At rest he truly was more of a green. A light green, cold and calm and serene.


	7. A deafening sound

Enjolras was hiding behind a stack of barrels, listening intently. His burglars’ lantern, carefully darkened and lidded sat beside him on the ground.

It was imperative that it remained so, not only for fear of betraying himself, but because of his current location. A cellar chock full of gunpowder.

A few days ago he has gotten wind of a shipment of ammunition, meant for the army, and with the help of some trustworthy associates devised a plan to make off with at least a portion of it. Everything has been proceeding splendidly, Enjolras has managed to work out the route the powder was to be transported and marked the small fort where the goods and its guard was to rest for the night. He’d even snuck in without a problem - but then he suddenly got company. And not the comrades he was expecting.

This was how he ended up behind the barrels, trying to work out how to proceed. The voices, hushed in tone, drew closer.

And suddenly Enjolras understood why he couldn’t pick up what they were saying before. They were English.

The relationship of France and England has always been strained at best, murderous at worst. Enjolras sat at his hiding place, alarmed, heart thundering in his chest, straining to catch at least some of what was being said.

It brought him no joy. The phrases he could catch included ‘king’, ‘parade’ ‘snail eating bastard’ and ‘send him flying’.

Of course. The king was planning a sort of feast, complete with a tattoo that weekend. Some of the gunpowder was persumably meant to be used there… Or at least the English meant to use it there.

Enjolras closed his eyes. Louis Philippe could rot in hell if such a place even existed, but to replace him with William IV was about the worst alternative imaginable.

He stood up, unlocked his lantern, and dropped it.

The world went white with a deafening sound.


	8. Well, this is embarrassing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (E/F, I’m thinking Modern AU with this one.)

‘Ah, there it is! I couldn’t imagine where I must have put it!’ said Enjolras, beaming down at Feuilly.

‘Here’s… what exactly?’

‘My favourite shirt. You must have accidentally grabbed it instead of your own.’

Feuilly looked down and indeed, he was wearing Enjolras’ light green button-down. He could feel the heat slowly creep up and spread all over his face. He’s been low-key aware all day that something was wrong but as he was in over his eyeballs trying to get their rally going he didn’t exactly have the time or mental capacity to try and puzzle it out.

And of course, of course it had to happen on the day of the rally, when every single Ami was present. Because whenever else.

‘Well’ he murmured ‘This is embarrassing.’

‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. We were both up at 4 am. It’s a small miracle we even found the way out the door.’

‘It’s not that just… this is a pretty unique shirt and… well, everyone must have spotted it by now.’

‘I don’t see the problem.’ said Enjolras, but then frowned ‘On a second thought… yes I do. Do the, ah, possible implications bother you?’

Feuilly scratched his chin. The two of them have been dancing around eachother for months, and despite Enjolras’ general disinterest in sex and romance and Feuilly’s lack of experience with (or previous interest in) men by now it would have seemed to an outsider that they were dating. 

Last night was a completely innocent affair, the two of them stumbling home after a long day of preparation and last-minute check-ins. They fell into bed together and were out cold in a minute. Feuilly woke with Enjolras’ long limbs draped all over him but sadly had no time to contemplate how nice it felt because they had to be up and going immediately.

Still. It was a pleasant experience and, somewhat to his own surprise, Feuilly found that he wouldn’t be opposed to repeating it. 

He dropped his hand and looked up at Enjolras.

‘No. Not if it doesn’t bother you. Let them think what they will’ he said and, gathering his courage added ‘Maybe they would be right, in a way.’

Enjolras’ answering smile was brighter than the sun.


	9. So I found this waterfall...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon era with Grantaire and Bossuet.

Grantaire peeled his eyes open with some difficulty and stared off into the distance. Light was streaming in between the run-down shutters, and it must have been closer to noon than to dawn.

For a few moments Grantaire just lay there, trying to get his thoughts into some semblance of an order in his aching head, and to work out what have woken him up.

He concluded that it might have been the insistent knocking at his door.

Groaning, he stuck his head under the pillow. If it was his landlord he could stuff it and go bugger a hedgehog, if such a thing was even possible.

‘Open up, Capital R, I know you’re in!’

Not his landlord then, but Bossuet. Groaning, Grantaire rolled out of bed and threw on a robe.

‘What brings my favourite Eagle to my humble home at such an ungodly hour?’

‘It’s past eleven, hardly ungodly, even by my standards’ said Bossuet, raising an eyebrow ‘Anyway, the other day you mentioned that painting you just can’t find a backdrop for…’

Grantaire dramatically covered his eyes with his hands. He was an artist more in theory than by any practical meaning of the word, but he studied under a reasonably famous master and would get a commission every now and then. Not enough to base a living on, but he had his allowance and at least daubing a portrait or landscape from time to time kept him from being bored.

Only with his latest work, what meagre inspiration he had to begin with had left him halfway through. The client wanted a nymph (done already, in loving detail) against some natural background. Grantaire had been sitting on it for weeks now, unable to muster the energy to even sketch something.

‘I did, but I will thank you kindly if you never bring up the blasted thing again.’

‘But you’re going to have to finish it, preferably sooner than later, and, well, I found this waterfall…’

‘Waterfall.’

‘Indeed.’

‘We’re in a city.’

‘Astounding wit, as always’ drawled Bossuet ‘Now of course if you don’t want to see it…’

‘Smooth thy feathers, my Eagle, of course I want to see it. There, just give me a minute…’

Grantaire dressed hastily and grabbed a pad and some charcoal, just in case. He didn’t expect much, but Bossuet was trying to help and it wouldn’t do to turn him away.

He was expecting a lengthy journey, but they arrived to the spot Bossuet found surprisingly quickly, a ten minutes ride by coach was all it took.

Bossuet led him to a small thicket of trees that surrounded what seemed to be an old aquaduct.

‘Here’ said Bossuet, gesturing around ‘I’m sure it’s just temporary, but still, it’s pretty.’

He was right: the old aquaduct was slightly damaged, with some stones stacked like a staircase by its side and, fed by the recent, heavy rains, a small waterfall was running down on them, collecting into a tiny pool. The ancient stone was barely visible under the blanket of wild grape and heavy moss.

It was nothing, just a pile of old stones in a thicket, not even technically outside the city, but the mist and the sunshine piercing mystical rays through it transformed this little scene into something truly captivating.

Grantaire quickly snapped his mouth shut – he didn’t even notice it was hanging open – and clapped Bossuet on the back.

‘You truly are a lifesaver, my friend!’


	10. Wake up. I can't do this without you!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon era, with Courfeyrac and Prouvaire.

Jehan was breathing heavily, looking down at Courfeyrac’s limp body, cradled in his arms.

‘Please my friend… please, wake up, for I cannot go on without you!’

He heaved a great sigh, a few tears running down his cheeks – and broke out in a fit of giggles.

Courfeyrac cracked an eye open.

‘You insult me, my good Jehan, surely my death is meant to be a sad affair!’

‘I know, I know’ Jehan muttered, beet red 'I cannot help it, I’m nervous!’

Courfeyrac sniggered and scrambled up from Jehan’s lap.

'If your nerves are acting up when it’s just the two of us rehearshing in an empty room how will you fare in front of an audience?’

Jehan sighed and shook his head.

'I’ll have to manage somehow. The play carries an important message but it is unlikely that we can get a more experienced troup to perform it.’

'I never meant to suggest that you shouldn’t be doing it, I’d merely advise you down a shot of brandy before you get on the stage.’

'I might as well…’ sighed Prouvaire.

'Other than that, you aren’t half bad! You nearly moved me to tears just now, and _I_ was the one dying!’ said Courfeyrac, laughing, looping an arm around Jehan’s shoulder.

'Thank you, my friend’ smiled Jehan 'My lines were fitting, in a way – I truly couldn’t do this without you!’


	11. Have you see, the... oh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Bahorel, canon era.

Bahorel tugged at his cravat, adjusting it with care. He gave his reflection an appraising look: he was wearing his best shirt with a waistcoat that was theoretically dark green, but the original colour was all but lost under the bright, floral embroidery. 

He was going to the Opéra – which in itself may not have waranted his absolute best look, but he was also meeting a lady, which of course did. 

‘Are you nearly done?’ he heard Enjolras call from the next room. 

The man came over to drop a handful of pamphlets Bahorel was meant to distribute over the next week, and also to introduce him to some new acquentice of his, who was supposed to meet them by the Opéra, before the show.

‘Patience, citizen’ he answered ‘Fashion is a fine task, it requires care and attention. Also, time. You would know if  you deigned to bother with it yourself!’

Enjolras may have muttered something along the lines of ‘that is exactly why I don’t bother’ but Bahorel’s attention was back at the mirror. He reached for his frock-coat, then carefully arranded a shawl over it. He finished off his opus with a tophat and peered at his reflection critically. Almost perfect, but not quite. Something was still missing.

Ah, but of course. The cane. An elegant gentleman’s habit was incomplete without a cane. He reached for it – but it was nowhere to be found! Such unfortunate predicament.

Strolling out into the next room he called out:

‘Say, Enjolras, have you seen the… oh’

Enjolras was holding Bahorel’s cane. Not simply holding it, actually he was right in the middle of doing a number on an imaginary opponent with it. He lunged forward, whacking the phantom fellow on the temple then sprang back into guard. He twrilled the cane, letting it gain momentum and brought it down on the top of his invisible enemy’s head.

Bahorel clapped, grinning.

Enjolras dropped his hand and ducked his head, a pink spot colouring his pale cheeks – either from the sudden exertion or from the embarrasment over being caught out like this.

'Ah, forgive me, my friend. Here, take it’ he said, handing Bahorel his cane. 'I forgot myself.’

’It’s quite alright – though I must admit I didn’t take you for much of a báttonist. I’ve never seen you with a walking stick of your own.’

'I have one, but I see no point in taking it to our meetings. The Musain isn’t that far from my home and I know I will be among friends, so why take it?’

'It’s elegant. Also, short walk or not, we often finish quite late in the night. If you’re visibly armed, your chances of being attacked are much lower.’

'I know – that’s why I carry a cane also on my riskier missions and not just a truncheon or knife.’

He said the last line in such a calm, conversational tone as if they were discussing vintage vines. Bahorel grinned wide, Enjolras never ceased to surprise him.

'Shall we go then, citizen?’

'Let’s go.’


	12. Few-sentence prompts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tiny snippets for Tumblr prombts, mixed canon era and modern AU ones.

Whenever they look into a mirror together they see three people where there are only two of them.  
By all means, Combeferre and Courfeyrac should be happy. They are a pair of best friends, living in the relative safety and peace of 21th century France, all should be well.  
Still, late at night they wake at the sound of someone sobbing, calling out for them, and they are overcome with a heavy feeling of loss.  
Someone’s missing.

***

Feuilly did not own an oven, but he was a nice young man with a charming smile.  
His landlady on the other hand owned a oven and had a soft spot for nice young men with charming smiles.  
Which was fortunate, because after saving up to and scouring all the ingredients for a batch of rugelach Feuilly found himself stumped, as his own tiny stove wasn’t fit for baking.  
Thankfully the lady was quick to help.   
This was how Feuilly spent an afternoon squatting in front of an oven, waiting for his pastries, hoping the pretty grislette they were meant for would be impressed.

***

It was a well known fact that Enjolras didn’t much care for household ornaments, or even notice them most of the time, but still, even he couldn’t pass by the collection of fiery red-orange leaves arranged neatly in a jug on Feuilly’s table.  
‘Are you trying to make a statement with these?’ he asked.  
Feuilly’s eyebrows shot up in incomprehension.  
‘A statement-? Why would I- oh. Because they’re red. No, actually, I just thought they were pretty.’  
Enjolras nodded curtly - if he was a bit disappointed he tried his best not to let his new acquaintence know.

(Give it a few months and Enjolras would be 100% convinced that if the pretty leaves make Feuilly happy, then they are a Good And Righteous And Very Useful Thing, and would have his full support.)

***

Never in his life did Enjolras imagine that getting married would come with so many tiny, hidden decisions, all of which were of the highest significance. According to Courfeyrac, at least. At trying times like these Enjolras was especially grateful for his fiancé’s profession as an artist, but right now even Feuilly was stumped.  
The cardinal question they were facing (and which according to Courfeyrac was of utmost importance)… was the colour of the tablecloth at the reception.  
Enjolras scratched the back of his head.

‘Uhhh… red?’

Feuilly hummed appreciatively, and the nice planner lady they were consulting opened her thick swatches book at the reds. All of which looked the same to Enjolras.  
Feuilly leaned closer. Enjolras couldn’t tell if he was humouring the lady or if he was honestly contemplating the selection. He _was_  an artist after all. Enjolras pretended to also carefully scrutinise the assortment for his sake, but was soon distracted by the fanciful names of the swatches.  
He shook his head, snickering - half tickled by the names, half in discomfort.

‘…Oh come on… ‘ _Burmese sunset_ ’, ‘ _Royal ball_ ’, ‘ _Midnight passion_ ’… Do you have anything like ‘ _The Communist Manifesto_ ’?’

The lady, unfazed, turned a couple of pages in the book.

‘Not that, specifically, but we do have this lovely deep crimson called ‘ _October_ ’, if you’d like.’

For a long moment Enjolras and Feuilly stared at the wedding planner.  
Then they nodded in union.

***

 

People tend to think longswords are heavy and slow, fit only for the use of heavy, burly men.  
Bahorel had the exact same misconception when he turned up to his first lesson and had a good (if private) laugh at fellow trainee Cosette.   
Tiny, agile, quick Cosette.  
Let’s just say he wasn’t laughing for long.

 

 

 


	13. Adventures of Medium Enjolras

It was a dark, wet, all-round unpleasant winter night, and Feuilly was unspeakably pleased and relieved when Enjolras invited him to stay the night. The last thing he wanted was to haul himself over the city, through the snowstorm, into his dark, wet, all-round unpleasant flat.

His joy lasted until the exact moment they retreated to bed.

The first thing he noted as strange was the sudden drop of temperature in the bedroom.

The second was Enjolras sitting up in bed, staring fixedly at the corner of the room.

The third thing was a bowl of biscuits and a pair of theatre spy-glasses floating in mid-air in said corner.

‘Piss off’ growled Enjolras ‘Nothing’s going to happen. We’ve talked about this, you perverted heathen.’

The bowl and the glasses floated out of the room with a distinct air of dejected disappointment.

…Feuilly didn’t sleep much that night.


	14. Kisses

Feuilly snuggled into the sheets with a deep, contented sigh. This wasn’t the first time he shared a bed with Enjolras and he hoped it wouldn’t be the last. He closed his eyes, letting his companion’s soft breathing lull him into sleep…

‘You feel round.’

Feuilly blinked. At first he wasn’t sure whether Enjolras really spoke or if he was merely dreaming it, but when he turned to face him, Enjolras was looking at him from under his drooping lids.

‘I like round things’ he went on ‘Round apples… Round arches. They are satisfying. Inviting. A round shape is soothing and proper. Round men are good.’

His voice was slightly slurred, evidently sleep-drunk. Although he was often heard saying things that made perfect sense to him but took everyone else some time to decypher (if they ever managed) it was strange hearing such words spill from the lips of such a private, solemn man. Not only was it strange, it was too intimate. Too personal. Feuilly scooted closer.

‘But if you like round men, surely Courfeyrac or even Grantaire would be better suited to your tastes than I am? I’m… anything but.”

Enjolras hummed.

‘Courfeyrac’s inside matches his looks, that’s true. You don’t look round, but you are. Grantaire… he looks round but he’s all pins and walls and jagged edges.’

Feuilly wasn’t sure he was even supposed to make sense of all this, but he tried none the less.

‘So… What you’re saying is that you find my presence satisfying? Soothing?’

Enjolras’ lips turned up in a sleepy smile.

‘Mmm… exactly.’

Feuilly remained laying there for a moment, at loss for words. Then he leaned forward and pressed a long, sweet kiss to his lover’s forehead.

 

***

 

When Joly came to he found himself burried under a pile of debris - mostly furniture and planks from the barricade - which by all appearances collapsed on his head, though he had no idea how.

In all honesty he didn’t have a clue where he was or what was going on and didn’t register much besides the ringing of his ears. He tried to call for help, but found that opening his mouth and forming sounds were quite beyond him at the moment.

He was close to despair, but suddenly the darkness around him began to clear as the bits of wood pinning him down began flying in all direction - 

 - Next thing he knew he was yakned out of the wreckage and into a pair of strong arms. It took him a moment to process this, and another to recognise Grantaire, but when he did, he clung to him with all his might.

Later, when his head cleard a bit and his ears stopped ringing, he couldn’t for the life of him decide whether the desperate kiss Grantaire pressed onto his temple was real or the figment of his imagination.

 

***

Prouvaire was gazing idly at the ceiling, streched out on his bed beside Bahorel. For the past half an hour they have been competing at who could puff out a more perfect ring of smoke.

…Or rather, Prouvaire has been trying to get a perfect circle, but Bahorel always managed to ruin it by blowing his own smoke directly at it.

Jehan concentrated - pressed his lips, rolled his tongue  _just so_  - and let out a ball of smoke. He was momentarily disappointed, but then as it floated, the ball became hollow in the middle, started to open up into the perfect ring…

…And then Bahorel’s puff passed right though it, like an especially fluffly lion jumping throug a hoop.

They both stared at the phenomenon, wide eyed - then, as if on cue, dissolved into a fit of giggles. Bahorel, still wheezing, turned his face and smacked a big, sloppy, prickly kiss on Prouvaire’s face.

 

***

When they first met, ‘adorable’ was the last word Feuilly would have used to describe Enjolras. This remained the case for the next couple of years of their acquaintanceship - and yet, here and now he found that it fit perfectly.

Upon learning that Feuilly never really celebrated his birthday before Enjolras ran off, bought a box of sweet pastry and that one illustrated edition of the History and People of the Habsburg Empire Feuilly has been eyeing for weeks now - and was now standing awkwardly in Feuilly’s doorway, shifting his weight from one leg to another, fiddling with the hem of his shirt.

Taking in his uncertain posture, his nervous but cautiously excited expression, Feuilly’s heart swell with warmth and love. Before he could think twice about it he leaned foreward and quickly pressed a kiss to the corner of his friend’s mouth.

Enjolras’ eyes went wide and for a moment Feuilly worried he may have crossed a line - but then Enjolras ducked his head, his face lighting up with a bright, shy smile.

 

***

It was six in the morning when Feuilly stopped vomiting. Now it was almost nine - for the last three hours Enjolras has been sitting by his bedside, ramrod straight, watching his friend’s breathing like a hawk.

Last night was hell - Feuilly spent it in exruciating pain, curled into a ball, trying not to die, Enjolras running to and fro with the bucket and the chamber pot, changing sheets, alternately holding Feuilly’s hand and holding back his hair, wiping sweat and tears off of his face.

Neither of them said it out loud, but both thought it: cholera. 

And yet, right now, at nine in the morning Feuilly was still breathing. Not only that, but he hasn’t had an attack for hours. The tight ball he’s been curled into eased up a bit - Enjolras was cautiously starting to hope.

Feuilly stirred, his big, dark eyes slowly fluttering open. Enjolras leant forward and seized his hand.

‘How do you feel?’

Feuilly looked up at him, lips working soundlessly for a moment.

‘Much better’ he whispered at last ‘Still shaky, but nothing hurts anymore.’

Enjolras sucked in a sharp breath, and let it out in a rush. The image he has been trying to stomp out - those shiny, intelligent, dark eyes turning dull and lifeless - flashed in his mind. The tears he kept holding back all night bubbled up and flowed freely as he pitched forward and drew Feuilly into a hug. Feuilly had no strength left to cry but he snaked his shaky arms around Enjolras’s neck and threaded his fingers into his hair.

Enjolras kissed him. He kissed his cheeks, his forehead, his eyelids, his chapped, dry lips - then he dropped his head into the crook of his neck. They stayed like that, clinging to each other for a long, long time.

 

 


End file.
